The Seduction - Art Bourgeau

by Art Bourgeau

  He listened for a moment. "You're damn right, it's important."

  Looking at Laura he added the flourish: "Charlie, I think I can say this one really is a matter of life or death."

  He hung up and scribbled something on a piece of paper that he handed to Laura. "That's the address of Charlie Christian, one of the city's top urologists. Never you mind how I know him. He's expecting you. Keep me posted."

  Laura nodded and hurried out the door. In less than fifteen minutes she was in the offices of Dr. Charles Christian. The doctor was in his early fifties and wearing a white lab coat. He shook hands with her, sat down at his desk and got to business. "Will and I are old friends. He says it's serious. I believe him. Tell me."

  She related the meat of the story to him, being careful to omit names.

  When she finished he said, "I think I see what Will meant. Before we go further I should tell you I've worked with the police on several rape cases, so I am familiar with the territory. Let's start with the simplest first."

  Laura started to bring out her tape recorder, but he shook his head. "I'm not talking on the record—I don't want to be in the paper or in court as a witness. I'm talking to you because Will Stuart is an old dear friend. We've played cards for over twenty years. You've got to be a good friend to manage that."

  "Agreed," Laura said.

  "Good." Softening his tone, he said, "Will has often talked about you. He's very fond of you, you know."

  No, she didn't, but it pleased her to hear it. She doubted that Will would appreciate having such a confidence aired, though. Not good for the "Front Page" image.

  Switching back to a more professional tone, he began: "In a case of rape, when you're dealing with a mature woman, the presence of sperm in the vagina is often the only way to verify that a sex act has actually taken place. With a virgin, of course, it's different—"

  Laura's thoughts immediately went to Terri and Marie, both virgins until almost the moment of death.

  "—But with a mature woman the vagina has sufficient elasticity to take the most vigorous penetration, and without the presence of sperm we're left with no medical way to determine that penetration has occurred."

  When he began to go over what she already knew about secretors and non-secretors and blood types she became impatient . . . "Yes, I know about all that. What I need to know is, are there any tests that could eliminate Felix as a suspect? That could maybe prove he's innocent? Genetic factors that might not necessarily match him up with the killer?"

  "Well, yes, there is. But it's a long shot. It's also rather complicated to explain. The ABH factors that determine blood types are part of a group called antigens. Antigens stimulate the production of antibodies. Which brings us to the Lewis factor."

  "What's that?"

  "The ABH factor is a red cell antigen. The Lewis factor is a plasma antigen. Like the ABH factor it's also water soluble and can be secreted into other bodily fluids such as sperm or saliva. The saliva or sperm is mixed with saline solution, boiled and spun in a centrifuge, then tested for the Lewis factor by its reaction to known chemical agents."

  "What will this prove?"

  "There are two Lewis groups that may show up: Lewis A or Lewis B. If he's a Lewis A he will be a secretor—not of the ABH factor, that's something entirely different, but of the Lewis factor. And if he's a Lewis B he will be a non-secretor."

  "Let me see if I understand. You're saying that just because he matched before with the ABH test, it doesn't mean anything when you do the Lewis test. It's sort of a new ballgame. The killer could be a Lewis A, and Felix could be a Lewis B. If that happened they would have to let him go, because . . . genetically he couldn't be the killer?"

  "That's correct," he said. "You're a quick study."

  "You said something about a longshot. How long?"

  "Is the subject black or white?"

  "White. Does it make a difference?"

  "Yes, about seventy-five percent of the black population falls into the Lewis A category. About ninety-five percent of the white."

  Laura felt her hopes sinking. "That means there's only about a five percent chance the two of them will be different—"

  "And I'm afraid that's not the worst of it. If it turns out that both samples tested are Lewis B, then that in itself could be a damaging piece of evidence. Only five people out of a hundred will be Lewis B. I know enough about forensic medicine to say most juries would tend to believe both samples were from the same man . . ."

  "There's nothing? A test with better odds?"

  "I'm afraid not, Miss Ramsey."

  * * *

  Outside, she left the car in the parking lot and walked, trying to absorb what this new information meant. And no matter how she added and subtracted, it always came out the same . . . A five percent chance to clear Felix, and another five percent chance the tests would almost certainly backfire and convict him.

  Moving down Sansom Street, looking in shop windows without actually seeing, to put things in more familiar terms she tried to liken it to a doctor telling you that you had one chance to five, one last dangerous painful procedure. What do you do? But of course it wasn't the same.

  Here, if they didn't take the chance, Felix would almost surely be convicted. Possibly even sentenced to death. It was to weight the odds except on the side of taking the gamble . . . ? She turned and began to walk toward Broad and Chestnut and the offices of Coleman Green.

  It was after two when she arrived. His secretary told her that Coleman was still in court but expected back. She sat down to wait. The reception area was crowded and smoky. Most of the other people waiting were black, reminding her that criminal lawyers dealt more with the poor than the rich. She picked up an old copy of Philadelphia magazine and began to leaf through it, seeing but not reading.

  About an hour later Coleman returned. He was carrying his briefcase in one hand and two paper bags in the other. When he saw Laura he managed a smile and ushered her into his cluttered office. He waved Laura to a chair while he cleared a place on his desktop for the two paper bags. One held a coffee in a cardboard container; the other a cornbeef on rye with coleslaw and Russian dressing.

  "A late lunch, been in court. Would you like half?" Laura declined. "Suit yourself. The Cornbeef Academy makes a great sandwich." He took a bite, chewed for a minute. "This Missy Wakefield business is unfortunate—"

  "That is a goddamn understatement. I know that she's lying. I'm not going to let her get away with it. She's not going to frame Felix and get him convicted for rape and murder."

  Coleman took a sip of his coffee, did not reply. "When I got back to the paper I talked this over with my editor, and he sent me to see a friend of his, a urologist . . . Have you ever heard of the Lewis test?"

  Coleman shook his head.

  Laura did her best to fill him in. "I'm surprised," she said, "that you didn't know about this test."

  "It's no mystery, Laura. I almost never take a rape case. It's a part of the practice I detest. Too damn many unknowns, too messy—"

  "Well, then don't you think Felix ought to have a lawyer who's a specialist in the field?"

  "I do and I so advised him, but he said no, he wanted me. He was quite firm about it."

  "Why?"

  "Felix goes by the person, the relationship. Puts all his faith in it. Maybe too much. Anyway, he and I are friends; I'm involved in this project of his . . ." He shrugged.

  That sounded like Felix, and she knew better than to try to reverse his decision. Back to business. "What do you think about the idea of this test? Will they let us do it?"

  "Oh, they'll let us do it. They'll do it for us. If they didn't, imagine what that would sound like to a jury—police refuse to give test because it could clear suspect. No, they'll do it if we ask But from what you say, it could backfire."

  "I know, but what other choice do we have?"

  "Let me call Felix's corporate lawyer and see what he thinks," he said, reaching for the phone.


  The two lawyers spoke for several minutes, Coleman explained the test as he'd gotten it from Laura, but making the issues clearer . . . no wonder he knew how to get his point across.

  When Green hung up, he looked seriously at Laura. "He feels that we should go ahead with it. I'll call Sloan and arrange it."

  "He's not at the Roundhouse. He's home asleep," and she gave him Sloan's home number.

  From what Laura could make out listening at one end of the conversation, Sloan was, as she'd expected, less than pleased at being awakened from a sound sleep, but in the end, Coleman reported, he agreed to have the test done.

  "But Felix has already been taken to the detention center,"

  Coleman told her, "and it will be several hours before the sheriff's people can bring him back for the test. I doubt we'll know anything until around eight tonight." Escorting her to the door, he said, "Why don't you go home now and get some rest? I'll let you know what happens, as soon as I hear."

  Laura looked at him. "I have to believe it's going to work. At eight o'clock tonight I'll be at Lagniappe waiting for the two of you to join me for a celebration drink. Don't disappoint me."

  "We'll be there . . . but if there should be a snag, I'll call you there and let you know what's up . . ."

  She walked back through the crowded reception area and out to the elevator. The ride down, the walk back to the car, and the ride home were accomplished with her head in a different zone.

  The phone was ringing as she walked through the door.

  * * *

  It was Missy.

  "I've been thinking about what you said when you were here earlier, and you're right. I want to tell you what really happened but not on the phone. That's too impersonal. Besides, it's so complicated. Carl is having some people over tonight. Meet me at his loft at eight? I promise to explain everything then. Don't worry, I'm doing this for me, not you, dear, even if you do end up with what your little heart desires." She hung up before getting an answer.

  It wasn't that Laura suddenly trusted her. But if Felix could take a life-and-death risk with that damn test, could she do any less?

  She would be there.

  * * *

  A drink did no good. Neither did a hot bath. She dressed and by eight was at Lagniappe, where the decibel level was reaching full blast as the cocktail hour was at its height.

  Lois and Justin were at their usual table, having a drink with the owners of nearby Sassafras, and waved her over.

  "I'm glad you're here," Laura said, her voice tight. "I wanted to tell you—"

  "We know," Lois said. "Felix has been arrested. Everyone's talking about it."

  "Yes, well, we hope to have him free very soon . . . in fact, he'll be meeting me here with his lawyer for a drink." Her smile was quick and forced as she said it.

  "But Missy . . . she says he raped her—"

  "That's what she said, Justin, but it's a lie, and I'm going to get the truth out of her at Carl's loft. When Felix comes in tell him I love him and that I'll be back here to meet him."

  She was out the door before they could ask how she expected to get Missy to tell "the truth"—whatever that was . . . And then the cocktail-hour din took over and helped blot out any more upsetting thoughts.

  CHAPTER 29

  MISSY WAITED in the darkness surrounded by the unfinished sculptures in Klaus Knopfler's studio outside Carl's living quarters. Actually the darkness wasn't total, was altered slightly by a faint intrusion of the lingering outside light filtered through the dusty windows—enough to make out shadow and form—and by a thin yellow strip that showed under the door to Carl's loft.

  The quiet of the room was broken by the sound of a Kurt Weill tape coming from Carl's quarters. Dagmar Kruse was singing "Surabaya Johnny." But Carl wasn't there. That, of course, was the beauty of it. Missy smiled into the darkness. He was at the Spectrum at a Flyers game. There would be no one to spoil her evening with Laura.

  Coming to the decision to end Laura's life had been no bold stroke for her. Boldness had long since gone out of such decisions. Nor was panic a factor. No, it was a matter-of-fact decision, much like the solution to, say, a medical problem. Laura, fortunately, was vulnerable on account of her hang-up on Felix, but she was also smart. She was a real adversary. Now that she'd seen the car, it was only a matter of time before she would at least guess at Peter's real identity. And, of course, that wouldn't be allowed to happen.

  Actually the boldness was in the means, not the end. With Felix in jail for Peter's crimes, she needed a new modus operandi, as the pretentious police liked to call it. And that was where Carl had, all unwittingly, come in.

  As soon as he heard about her rape he called. No doubt in part because the idea excited him, but at least he called. No one else did. He had mentioned in passing that he was going to be at the Spectrum this evening and . . . there it was—the means. All that was necessary was to get Laura to Carl's and arrive ahead of her. She had keys. She could open up his loft, turn on lights and music so it would seem as though people were already there, and wait.

  After talking to Carl she dialed the number Laura had written on her card and was relieved when Laura answered—she did not want to call the paper and need to leave messages. Their conversation went as she had hoped. Above all else, Laura's voice made it clear she was eager to do anything she could to free Felix, much too eager to worry about a possible trap . . .Laura was not like the others. For her there would be no act of love or awakening or the one-upmanship of making her body betray her, as had happened with Cynthia. No, this time it would be an act of revenge. No embellishments . . . no handcuffs, no chain, no gun. She would use a knife. Perhaps like old Jack the Ripper, she thought as she fingered the handle of the razor sharp boning knife she had taken from his kitchen. The special piquance to this one had not occurred to her until after six, when she had gone to the lab for a sperm sample. She had found one in the tray marked "A-Positive"—Carl's type. When the police found Laura's body they would naturally turn to Carl, and it would serve him right for the way he treated her—

  A sudden abdominal pain made her wince. She put her hands to her stomach and pressed. The pain had started earlier in the day and had progressed at irregular intervals, growing stronger with each recurrence.

  She pressed harder, pushing back the pain as well as her own panic, still convinced she was pregnant. As soon as she was finished with Laura, the instant she was back home she would call her gynecologist and check into the hospital. She wanted it aborted immediately. Tonight, this very night, before it could hurt her any more—

  The sound of the elevator being actuated startled her. The pain slackened. She stepped deeper into the shadows and waited. From Carl's loft she could hear the sound of Lou Reed singing "September Song."

  * * *

  Downstairs, Laura waited as the old freight elevator clanked to a halt. She hitched her purse higher on her shoulder and muscled open the heavy horizontal doors. On board, she closed them again, lowered the picket gate and pressed the button for Carl's floor.

  She felt a weary sort of elation as the elevator began to climb. No matter how the Lewis test turned out, after her confrontation with Missy, Felix would be cleared; they would be together . . . Her mind shut away, refused to allow into consciousness the truth of Missy . . . The future of herself and Felix would not allow it . . .

  The elevator stopped some six inches short of its mark. She pushed up the gate, pulled hard on the rope to the outer doors, which now slowly opened, spilling light into the dark studio. She stepped up and into Klaus Knopfler's studio. As she turned to look toward Carl's she heard the sound of "September Song," and seeing the yellow strip of light under his door turned back and reached up to close the elevator doors.

  * * *

  From the shadows Missy watched as Laura struggled with the heavy doors. It was working perfectly. Just like her father had taught her on hunting trips long ago. Nothing too elaborate, the minimum always worked best.

 
; The elevator doors closed slowly, taking with them the light. Pulling their heaviness Laura could feel the unused muscles in her chest stretching under her scar. It was painful, but a good kind of pain, another sign that her body was finally waking up and beginning to function normally again.

  She glanced over her shoulder at the shadowy sculptures and it occurred that they made the dark room look more like a graveyard or a warehouse than a loft. Adjusting her collar and purse she began to walk toward the strip of light showing under Carl's door. The sound of her heels on the wooden floor seemed unusually loud, an off-beat note to the music coming softly from his loft.

  * * *

  Missy watched her pass so close that she could reach out and touch her, but she kept still. To move now was to risk a shocked Laura reacting unpredictably. Better to wait a moment, use to her advantage the elements of distance and timing. There was, after all, no place for her to run.

  * * *

  Laura was only a few feet from Carl's door when she heard something behind her. But she was alone, the elevator hadn't come back with more passengers. She whirled around, terrified

  it might be one of those cat-size, inner-city rats.

  What she saw, standing where she had just walked, was a bearded man wearing tinted glasses and a leather jacket. She looked quickly around, trying to stay calm, to figure her options. He hadn't come from the elevator, she was sure of that, and he hadn't come from Carl's. Which could only mean that he had been there in the darkness all the time. Waiting.

  Now he stepped forward out of the shadows.

  Don't run, she ordered herself. Talk to him, pretend you assume he's going to Carl's, too, nothing out of the ordinary, no sweat . . . But she didn't. It would only come out as fear. She wanted to believe he was just another guest, but that didn't work either . . . The music was coming from Carl's, but there were no people noises to go with it. Soft as it was playing, she should be able to hear party noises, laughing and talking . . .

  Well, for God's sake, Laura, she told herself, say something . . . But what? Hi, there, you waiting for me? Sorry, I have to see a lady about a man . . .